


true love, she is absolute

by mariya



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Homophobia, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 23:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15762282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariya/pseuds/mariya
Summary: Five years post-breakup, Soonyoung finds out Minghao's back in Seoul. Can he make things right again?





	true love, she is absolute

Like most things, it starts at the grocery store.

Soonyoung goes to Lotte Mart once a month and buys nothing but _chuhai._  Everything else he can get from the small grocery store around the corner of his apartment, but this particular flavor seems to only exist in the vacuum of Lotte Mart.

There’s a pattern in which Soonyoung likes to do things. He likes to buy three of each flavor, three bottles of Calpis, and a tall bottle of _shochu_ in frosted glass to mix with the Calpis. Wine just doesn’t do it for him. There’s something gross about it. In the world, there are some undisputable truths: the planets revolve around the sun, gravity is a force enacted upon all objects, Soonyoung hates wine—

He stops mid-step, the cart squeaking to a halt, and quickly backtracks, pulling the cart behind the junk food aisle.

Another undisputable truth? Soonyoung hasn’t seen Kim Mingyu in five years.

He sticks his head out to spy on Mingyu. He’s standing in front of the sale section, tall as the drink in his hand, sunglasses hooked on his shirt. He purses his lips, pondering the sale.

 _Don’t do it,_  Soonyoung thinks stupidly, wiping the sweat from his palms on his jeans. _Seven-thousand won per pound isn’t worth it for oxtail._

“Seven-thousand won per pound isn’t worth it,” Mingyu mutters to himself, flipping the package in his hand. He puts it back down in the refrigerated display case and turns away, walking toward the aisle Soonyoung’s hiding behind.

Soonyoung gets the fuck out of there. He abandons his cart full of alcohol he painfully and carefully selected and runs away. Doesn’t fast-walk, doesn’t jog, _runs._

That night, Soonyoung can’t help himself. He looks up Mingyu’s Instagram and finds it easily. It’s full of OOTDs, pictures of him staring handsomely at the camera, pictures of food. He scrolls a little further down and sees a photo of him and Minghao. The blood rushes so quickly to his head it feels like he’s being choked. He holds his phone in both hands, careful not to touch the screen. The photo is low quality, scratchy from the darkness, but it is undeniably Minghao, the tender slice of him offset by Mingyu’s broad shoulders.

Below, the caption says goodbye. Past this photo, Mingyu is obviously in England. They’ve been back in the country for more than a year and Soonyoung didn’t know.

He rolls over in bed, burying his face in a pillow to avoid identifying the feelings bubbling up inside of him.

 

 

 

 

 

Soonyoung visits Mingyu’s Instagram so often his profile is the first to pop up whenever he searches for anything. He checks for updates and then goes back to look at the photo of Mingyu and Minghao. Eventually, he just screenshots the picture and crops out the caption, then immediately deletes the whole thing, throwing his phone to the foot of his bed and drawing the blanket tight over his head.

He knows Minghao has an Instagram of his own. It’d be more surprising if he doesn’t, but Soonyoung wants to see more of Minghao without actually having to see him. He wants to see the diluted version of him filtered through Mingyu’s Instagram, sandwiched between his OOTDs and food pics. It makes staring at him more bearable.

Soonyoung checks Instagram that entire week. Mingyu doesn’t post again until Sunday night, right when he’s about to go to bed. The blue light burns his eyes. He lowers the brightness and turns on night mode.

It’s a photo of Mingyu in a ridiculous Canadian suit bifurcated by a Gucci belt. He’s standing barefoot with his hip cocked. He and Minghao always talked about separating personal and professional style. Professionally, he’d never wear a belt or recommend one. Belts are dumb. They cut the body into two unattractive pieces, but personally? His collection houses one of the dumbest belts known to woman.

In the comment section, xuminghao_o says: photo by Minghao.

Soonyoung stares so long his screen dims. He can feel his heart beating in the core of his throat.

He taps on Minghao’s username.

His page opens up. Xu Minghao, his description says in Chinese first then Korean. Bespoke tailor for the Silk Line. There’s an address at the bottom, no doubt for the tailor house. Soonyoung slides his thumb across Minghao’s name. There’s no reason to be like this if no one’s watching.

He sits up and turns off night mode, maxing out the brightness. Slowly, he scrolls down. The entire first row of photos is of his paintings. It’s a pleasant surprise—though, maybe it isn’t so much of a surprise as it is an expectation pleasantly fulfilled. It’s nice to see he’s still painting even after so many years. He’s still someone Soonyoung remembers.

The year Minghao took up painting, they both sat in his living room, newspaper lining the floor around his easel. He held his paintbrush up to Soonyoung sitting by the window and closed one eye. The windows were wide open, letting in a pleasant spring breeze that turned cold as the light shifted lower upon Soonyoung’s face. He remembered the warmth of the setting sun behind his eyes while goosebumps raised on his arms. Minghao never told him not to move; he did that on his own, because that’s what he saw in the movies. 

But in that chair, sitting a distance away from Minghao who painted in silence, Soonyoung couldn’t help but glance at him. Minghao was already staring back, eyes low with an intensity that got Soonyoung’s nipples hard fucking _statim._  He straightened up and quickly looked away.

When Minghao finished the painting at last, Soonyoung leaned over his shoulder and stared at the surreal explosion of paint on the canvas. There was zero human resemblance, but Minghao looked at it proudly and signed his name on the bottom.

 _Is this what you see when you look at me?_ Soonyoung wanted to joke.

“I really like it,” Minghao said. “It looks like how I feel about you.”

Soonyoung’s stomach flipped. He crouched down to Minghao’s eye level to see the painting as he did. “It’s beautiful. You should hang it in the kitchen.”

The painting was the last thing he saw of Minghao when he left his apartment for the last time. The colorful portrait of himself, staring at him from a frame within a frame. The portrait frame contained by the wall, contained by the stretch of the hallway and by the narrowing gap of the door. Himself as Minghao imagined, watching him as he left.

He wonders if Minghao kept the painting. If it had been him, he would’ve thrown it away.

Soonyoung closes his phone and places it on his chest. For the next hour, he lays open-eyed in the darkness, unable to sleep.

Things don’t get much better after that. As pathetic as it is, he falls into a new habit and constantly checks Instagram for Minghao or Mingyu to post. The only time he isn’t thinking himself to death is at work when he pushes himself so hard the physical exhaustion burns everything that isn’t choreography out of his mind. Thankfully, in the eleventh hour, Hansol returns from an overseas tour with gifts.

One gift, really, that makes Soonyoung less thankful for his company. _The Conjuring 2._  Hansol pops it into his Blue-ray player and the movie rolls without preamble.

Thirty minutes into the movie, Soonyoung says, “Myungho’s back.”

“Huh?” Hansol’s got that wide-eyed look that says he’s immersed in the movie. The protagonist turns around in the yawning stretch of her hallway and sees the demon-nun standing at the opposite end.

“Myungho’s back.”

The demon-nun and Hansol turn away at the same time. He pauses the movie.

“How do you know?”

“I found his Instagram.” Soonyoung holds a cushion tight against his chest. It smells like Hansol’s dollar-store shampoo.

“Oh, I see.” Hansol fiddles with the remote. “What’re you gonna do?”

“Do you…do you think I should message him?”

“And say what?”

“I don’t know. Apologize? It’s been five years. I think it’d be okay if we saw each other, right?”

Hansol’s silent for a long time. Slowly, he says, “I don’t think there’s a right or wrong thing to do, hyung. But I do think if you message him, you have to remember that this is someone you have wronged. So, you should approach it differently."

“You can apologize. It can be closure for you, but then…that might be selfish, right? Because if you apologize thinking it might make everyone feel better, I don’t think he’d feel the same way. Judging by what you’ve told me about him, he might think it’s selfish of you, so he might not give you that peace of mind. Not because you don’t deserve it, but…because he’s hurt badly. Because of the distance. We don’t want to forgive the people that hurt us.”

Soonyoung stares at the television screen. He wishes this was _the Ring_ and Valak could climb out to kill him. “Yeah,” he says numbly. “You’re right. That’s how he’d feel.”

Hansol pats his knee. “But you should do what feels right to you, too. Some things you can’t control. If you apologize right and he doesn’t accept it, then that’s that. Out of your control.”

They sit in silence, staring at the paused screen. Soonyoung tries to will Valak out of the screen when Hansol says, “Are you hoping Valak might crawl out of the TV to kill you?”

Soonyoung sinks into the couch. “Yeah. You too?”

“Yeah, man. My schedule is insane. I feel like I’m asleep all the time.”

“You can sleep now, I don’t mind.”

“Nah,” Hansol says, “I’m here for you,” and presses play. 

 

 

 

 

 

Soonyoung doesn’t think of the address in Minghao’s biography until days later, when he posts a photo of himself sitting on an empty bike rack in front of a cement wall covered in crawling ivy. He recognizes the wall immediately; he walks by it sometimes when he’s on break.

Turns out, Minghao’s tailor shop isn’t that far from his workplace. It’s within walking distance, twenty minutes from Pledis.

Soonyoung starts existing in the same space as Minghao. He posts a latte on his story from Soonyoung’s favorite café, the one with the barista that’s sweet on him. Minghao places a single pink heart in the center of the foam art. Even though this is a diluted version of him filtered through Instagram, it is still recognizably Minghao. The Minghao he remembers from the past who refuses to drink cold things even when it’s pushing a hundred degrees with fifty percent humidity.

The next day, Soonyoung goes to the café on his break and orders the same thing. The barista places it in front of him. It has the same latte foam art, a cute white heart imprinted within the espresso. Soonyoung just stares at it.

The barista says, “Is there something wrong with it?”

Soonyoung jumps a bit in his seat. “No, sorry. I was just—distracted. Thank you.”

The barista smiles and goes back to the counter.

He never drank coffee until college when he needed something stronger than tea to keep him awake. He started double-fisting cups of coffee, the taste of it bitter, not even really giving him energy. It just made him jittery and anxious and unable to sleep, forcing him to exist in a ghost-caffeinated state. The taste of coffee is forever linked with the distinct taste of exhaustion.

It isn’t any different today. Drinking this latte makes him think of college. He closes his eyes and drinks deeply, the espresso flowing smoothly through the foam. Minghao used to make him drink warm water to bring him down from the caffeine, rubbing his back as Soonyoung buried his face in his sweater.

The door chimes, and someone walks in. Soonyoung’s pulse jumps even though he knows it can’t be Minghao. He drinks coffee sparingly, but when he does, it always has to be early in the morning. Soonyoung came at two in the afternoon for that reason. He’s not gonna sleep tonight.

The door keeps chiming. Every time someone walks in, Soonyoung twists around to look. It gets so bad he has to leave, his coffee half-finished.

Other times, Minghao doesn’t post. Soonyoung checks his Instagram multiple times a day. Mingyu’s too, just to catch a glimpse of Minghao. At night, the guilt corrodes his stomach as if he invited a dark fucking energy into his life, like when the husband in _the Conjuring 2_  comes out with that fuck ass hideous portrait of Valak and things immediately go to shit. Soonyoung would’ve hit him with divorce papers within the hour.

Ever since he discovered Minghao’s Instagram, it’s been increasingly hard to concentrate. He starts thinking about old buried shit. He was always ashamed of how he ended things with Minghao.

One day, while Minghao was in class, Soonyoung came over with a box of stuff Minghao left at his apartment. A toothbrush, house slippers, books, a ton of clothing. He emptied the box and filled it with his own things, clearing out the spaces Minghao learned to share with him.

“I’m breaking up with you,” Soonyoung said. “I’m sorry.”

Silence came over the phone. Minghao deliberating. Silence was always a lot more unnerving over the phone. He couldn’t tell what Minghao was thinking, but in person it probably wouldn’t be any better. The flat silence. His face concerned.

“You’re breaking up with me,” Minghao said, the sound of his voice clear, close but far away, “over the phone?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.” Soonyoung gripped his phone tightly in his sweating palm.

Silence again.

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you why,” he whispered, throat closing.

“You can,” Minghao said quietly. “You just won’t.”

Soonyoung didn’t know what to do.

He hung up.

 

 

 

 

 

And then, the strangest thing happens.

At the end of each fiscal year, Pledis throws a party to end all parties. It usually comes at a good time, right when autumn peels back the heat layer by layer. Higher management knows what they’re doing, sending the summer off with a party, telling people that whatever pleasant lethargy they fell into needs to be stripped away to make way for the nightmare of autumn, but this year Seoul is on a ten-day streak of hellish weather with no end in sight.

Between the heat, humidity, and the acidic guilt, Soonyoung really thinks he might melt away. There won’t be anything left of him except for his dental fillings.

But the weather isn’t strange. It’s not like Seoul’s weather is temperamental, it’s reliably humid as shit every summer.

What’s weird is that Mingyu posts a story of his hardware. Two sets of accessories in gold and silver. He asks: what color? and follows up with a boomerang shot of his suit complete with his final pick. A cool grey summer suit with a silver watch and bracelet. By the looks of the texture and weight of the suit fabric, it must be a wool-cotton blend. He balances the subtly of his suit with a dark patterned tie and a pocket square folded into four leaves, always dressed to break hearts.

Soonyoung watches the boomerang three times; the third time, he catches a glimpse of Minghao. Just a bit of him blurred by the movement of the camera, but even blurred, Soonyoung can see he’s wearing a tie.

What are the chances they’re preparing for a party at the same time? It isn’t even like they’re going to different parties judging by clothing. Minghao and Mingyu always dress to kill. Even in college, when clothing and dressing well hadn’t been their job yet.

It’s Seoul on a Friday night, it’s not hard to find a party. They could be going anywhere. Soonyoung chews his thumb nail and paces the floor, and yet he doesn’t consider staying home. Not once. He isn’t a kid anymore. Whatever feeling, whatever bullshit makes him want to hide, he can handle it. He vowed to himself that dark fucking year after college when he moved back home that he’d become someone who can handle it all.

He slips his phone into his pocket, grabs his suit jacket, and heads out. The sunset turns the sky into a deep cool purple, something to soothe the eye.

Even after four years, he still has anxiety about these parties. It’s always held in downtown Seoul’s most exclusive penthouse. Each year, Jeonghan has to swindle his way into locking it down. It’s such an odd display of wealth for Soonyoung who found it difficult to accept the staggering wealth of Seoul when he first moved.

He doesn’t blink much at it now when he exits the elevator into the penthouse and sees the shine and glamor of the place. He isn’t interested in that; he makes a beeline for the food.

“It’s not fair,” Seungkwan whines, holding a glass of champagne. There’s no lip print to be seen on the glass. “We never get to eat at these things.”

Soonyoung stretches his mouth as wide as it can go and shoves in three appetizers. He speaks behind his hand, but Seungkwan is horrified and jealous at the same time. “I don’t understand why not.” 

“Our manager says when hosting a party, we have to make sure the guests are fed, not to feed ourselves.” On cue, Hansol’s stomach growls.

It doesn’t stop Soonyoung from feeding shrimp to Seungkwan who glances around before eating it. “It must be tough being an idol.”

“It’s okay,” Hansol says. “We can eat before and after the party, we just came late.”

“But you guys can have alcohol?”

“He also says it’s disconcerting to drink water at a party.”

Seungkwan leans in conspiratorially, cupping a hand over his mouth. “He’s crazy.”

“Who’s crazy?” Jeonghan says, appearing over Seungkwan’s shoulder like an apparition.

They all straighten up. Soonyoung points at Seungkwan who tries to bite his finger as Hansol snickers. “He said it.”

Jeonghan sighs. “Go eat.” 

Seungkwan and Hansol immediately swarm around the catering table before Jeonghan can change his mind.

Since Soonyoung isn’t signed talent, he can leave whenever he wants. Years ago, when everyone was still young, green, and unsigned, they used to leave the party early, all within five minutes of each other, and met up at an old barbecue joint downtown where the deals were proof of a benevolent god. He remembers the heat of the grill melting his face off as Hansol flipped the meat too early.

Sometimes he wishes he could go back to that time, but Soonyoung likes the way he is now. He’s come a long way to be who he is today, there’s no way he’s gonna turn back time just to watch Hansol fuck up at the grill. He’d turn back time for some other shit, no doubt.

Soonyoung makes his rounds and greets everyone at the party. If he's lucky, he can leave within the hour. He rises a level and talks to the guests, the idols, his coworkers, Bumzu who shows up an hour late but moves Soonyoung to the core, as always.

“It’s all about appearances,” Bumzu tells him, mouth hidden behind the rim of his glass. Jeonghan must’ve also told him he had to hold alcohol in his hand, because he sure as hell isn’t drinking out of his glass. “Cause even if we can barely afford it, this is the kind of thing that gets investors interested. You have your idols placed against the backdrop of a 5.5 billion won penthouse, and it’s like, _woah._ I gotta invest in this shit.”

Soonyoung laughs. They look over the first floor and watch people converse. “Nicely put,” he says, voice dropping a pitch in a poor imitation of Bumzu, “ _I gotta invest in this shit._ ” 

Bumzu bumps their shoulders together. “Yeah, well. What can you do?”

Below them, Jeonghan’s razor sharp eye makes out Soonyoung’s empty hand. He raises his glass pointedly. Soonyoung grins and waves sheepishly. “We see these glamorous lifestyles and people with brands we can’t afford. It’s like—a trap? Like, this lifestyle is definitely a trap, unachievable except in our dreams. Isn’t that weird? Like, is the purpose of this to make us feel bad so we try to live our lives wanting these things? And when we do that we play into their hands.”

“It feels kind of meaningless, right? You look like you’re thinking, _I want to live a more meaningful life._ ”

Soonyoung laughs, because Bumzu’s right all the fucking time. “You’d be a good fortune teller.”

“I should leave my stable job, huh? Go out into the lucrative world of fortune telling?”

Soonyoung pulls out ten thousand won from his wallet and tucks it into Bumzu’s shirt pocket. “Seed money.”

Bumzu laughs so hard he accidentally tips his glass too far, spilling champagne onto the crowd below. He quickly uprights the flute and peers over the railing. “Oh shit.”

On the first level, Jisoo reaches up to touch the champagne in his hair. He looks up, annoyance so sharp Soonyoung can feel his balls retreat.

“Hyung did it,” he says.

Seungkwan pops up beside Jisoo. He hisses, “You’re a snitch, hyung.”

Soonyoung grins and makes his escape, but not before patting Bumzu on the back as Jisoo ascends the stairs. “See you later.”

At the bar, the bartender puts sprite and a ball of ice in a lowball glass, garnishing with a curl of orange peel. Jeonghan’s no-water rule is draconian. Soonyoung drinks his glass gratefully at the counter as he checks his phone, thinking it’s almost time to leave. But, out of habit, he checks Instagram first. Minghao’s story pops up.

Soonyoung presses on his icon and his story unfolds across his screen. The first one is a glittering chandelier that shines under its own light. When Minghao tilts his phone, the light catches on the crystal just right. The next story is a table full of appetizers taken from an angle that exaggerates the length of the table. Soonyoung furrows his brows and glances at someone’s plate as they walk by.

It’s the exact same food. He met the catering guy. He said, specifically, that their appetizers were crafted while keeping three colors in mind: white, green, and red. _The most delicious colors,_ he said obnoxiously. Soonyoung remembers eating everything on that table and finding, to his horror, that he agreed with the guy.

He holds his breath. Slowly, he looks up at the ceiling, and sees the same chandelier.

There’s no time to process—Minghao updates his story again. Soonyoung has to press it twice from how badly his hands are sweating. It’s a muted video of the city lights.

Soonyoung thinks: _fuck this,_ and stands. He really wishes he had a drink in him now, but he’s already on the move. He goes up the stairs leading to the third floor, covering two steps at a time. The penthouse has a deck. There’s a pool, he remembers it. A pool so beautiful it looks like aquamarine liquefied.

All the way up and all the way across the third level, Soonyoung checks Minghao’s story, heart working so hard he feels like he’s gradually suffocating. _Don’t go anywhere,_ his heart beats. _Stay right there._

There’s no one this far back at the penthouse. It’s too hot and humid to open the deck for the guests, everyone would much rather enjoy the view from the first and second floors. Soonyoung grips the sliding door handle in his sweaty palm and pulls it open, the humid night rolling over him as he slides the door shut behind him. Inside, the DJ’s on a J-Jazz set, playing Soil & Pimp Sessions’ _My Foolish Heart._ The sound of it bleeds out onto the deck, so cheerful it borders on unnerving.

The pool casts its blue light everywhere and contrasts the night. The reflection of the water ripples along the deck, the garden wall, everywhere, but doesn’t reach farther back along the deck on the other side of the pool. Minghao cuts a dark silhouette against the city lights.

It’s the oxfords and the bare ankles, but more importantly, it’s the slant to his shoulders. That classic swagger you could only be born with. Soonyoung knows. He tried to emulate it in his youth but was informed that one couldn’t recreate swagger. Some people are born tall, born attractive, but what can you do in the world with tallness? With beauty?

A better question: what can't you do with swagger? That's the true jackpot, a genetic lottery people would kill to win. That shit, one is born and blessed with.

Minghao had rested his cheek in his hand, settling his eyes on Soonyoung as he said fondly, _you, however, are blessed with something entirely different._

Minghao must have a sixth sense for knowing when people are thinking about him, because he tilts his head the slightest degree like he’s holding his ear up to the wind. And then he turns around on goddamn beat. Shiina Ringo’s cheeky voice going, asking, accompanied by a trumpet,

_What you gonna do? What you gonna do?_

Soonyoung’s heart fucking sputters, because he doesn’t know.

The surprise on Minghao’s face lasts for all of one second before it’s replaced by distaste and, finally, indifference. His arms are casually crossed over his chest, a glass of red wine in one hand. Jeonghan glitches across Soonyoung’s thoughts.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Soonyoung gulps. He’s unprepared into honesty. “I. Uhm. I didn’t even know you were back in the country.”

Minghao smiles, unkind. “Because I didn’t want you to.” 

“Oh,” Soonyoung croaks. Now’s his chance to apologize, but instead he fucking—malfunctions or something, because instead of saying sorry, he jokes, “Should we bifurcate the city?”

Minghao narrows his eyes like Soonyoung is crossing a line just by existing, and then he scoffs, the sound as sharp as his trouser pleats. Says accusingly, “What are you bargaining for? You don’t like Seoul.”

“Seoul’s…alright. It has to be alright. I work here now, at Pledis.” He gestures to the space around them.

“I see.” 

It’s so surreal. The moon hangs above the city like a portentous eyeball hovering in the sky, rolling itself at the unbelievable lameness of Soonyoung and showing only its bone white sclera. Motoharu Fukada going hard as a motherfucker on the sax as Minghao coolly stares him down, the pool lights darkening his eyes.

Soonyoung nervously twists his hands together. “What are you doing here?”

“Your CEO is a regular at my shop,” Minghao says before growing tired of humoring him. “Why are we talking like this?”

Soonyoung just opens his mouth but nothing comes out. “I’m sorry?” he finally says.

Slowly, Minghao walks around the pool, his eyes never leaving Soonyoung as his shoes click menacingly closer. Repeats, unimpressed, “You’re sorry.”

Soonyoung used to imagine how their reunion would go. He thought out a dozen scenarios, a dozen ways to pretend they were okay, and each scenario had no ending because there’s no way Minghao would ever pretend with him. And so, each daydream was left incomplete; Soonyoung knew better than to fantasize.

He instinctively brings his shoulders up to his ears, preparing himself for vitriol so poisonous it’d dissolve his flesh clean off his bones, except it doesn’t come. Minghao walks straight past him. He comes close enough that Soonyoung can smell his perfume, and then the music is clear before coming muted once more, signaling his departure.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hyung, how long have you been in here?”

Seungkwan swipes his finger across the fogged glass and wrinkles his nose. He turns around to look at Soonyoung laying on the couch, sweaty as hell.

Soonyoung blinks up at the white ceiling of the karaoke room. “Two hours, why?”

Seungkwan glances around the room. Shit is seriously humid, like Soonyoung’s misery is generating a weather pattern of its own. There’s no food on the table, only an empty water bottle and an unopened menu. He takes his phone out of his pocket and types briefly, sliding it back into his jeans before sitting on the couch beside Soonyoung and flipping open the menu.

“I hope you can go for another two hours.”

He orders them milk tea so delicious it jumpstarts Soonyoung’s brain. Hansol shows up ten minutes later to collect the third cup, sinking back into the couch and watching as Seungkwan and Soonyoung queue up all the old love ballads and hammer them out one by one. The only non-ballad that hits the screen is Wale’s _Bad_ remix featuring Rihanna.

Hansol stands at the front of the room, mic in hand, the disco lights dimming and brightening obnoxiously to the synth. His voice comes in loud through the speakers, flat and monotone:

_Is it bad that, I never made love?_

_No, I never did, but I sure know how to—_

“Say it,” Seungkwan says. “You’re not gonna say it?”

Hansol ignores him, says even louder, _I’ll be your bad girl, I’ll prove it to you._

Laying boneless against the couch, Seungkwan turns his head to Soonyoung. He presses their shoulders together. “You feeling better, hyung?”

Soonyoung leans into Seungkwan’s touch. “Yeah. Thanks for coming, I know you’re busy.”

“The day I’m too busy to hang out with you is the day I’m dead,” Seungkwan says, with feeling.

Hansol sings along to Rihanna’s verse, _the day I’m too busy to hang out with you is the day I’m dead._

Soonyoung lights up his phone and waves it. Hansol raps Wale’s verses without tripping up once, and when the song comes full circle to Rihanna’s verse, he hands the mic off to Seungkwan who takes it and sings beautifully, sings loudly without skipping a single _fuck,_ the sound of it glitching and echoing through the machine like a ghost singing it right back.

 

 

 

 

 

When the queue is emptied and the cups of milk tea are thrown away, it’s right about time for Seungkwan and Hansol to leave for work. Hansol hangs back as Seungkwan calls them a taxi.

“You don’t wanna talk about it?” he says.

“I’m okay. I wanna think about it more before I say anything.”

A taxi slows down by the curb. Seungkwan pops open the door and looks expectantly at Hansol.

“I get it.” He walks backwards slowly, still facing Soonyoung. “Don’t think too long, hyung, I know how you get. I’m right here for you.”

Soonyoung smiles. “Have a safe drive back.”

The taxi pulls away slowly. Seungkwan twists around in the backseat and peaces. Soonyoung peaces back.

Alone with nothing to distract him, he starts thinking about Minghao again on the walk home. 

Minghao was one of those show-stopper loves. The kind of boyfriend your parents like more than you, except Soonyoung’s parents fell for Minghao in a near instant and hated him with that same quickness.

It wasn’t like Minghao gave up after the breakup because they had something _good._ He called, texted, left voicemails. Stopped by his apartment, but Soonyoung moved home right after he broke up with Minghao, and upon moving his stuff back into his childhood room, cut things off for real. Blocked Minghao’s number and deleted the voicemails he never listened to. 

Thinking about it now still gives Soonyoung great shame. They were together for two years and he broke up with Minghao over the phone, just short of text.

If he had just been even a little braver, he would’ve done it in person. Or he would’ve never done it at all. But he did, and then entered an exile like no other. Sequestered in the mile-high iron walls of his childhood home all those years ago, he seriously thought he would die of loneliness even though he was back home where he was supposed to be.

Nearly twenty-three and still without woman? His parents could not have shown their disappointment any more. Either their son was malfunctioning or _worse,_ he had no game, going on dates but fucking up so badly no woman gave him that coveted second date.

They called him periodically during his last semester, asking about a girlfriend when, on the other side of the line, Soonyoung watched Minghao heat up _samgyetang_ in his kitchenette.

It isn’t like that anymore. His parents don’t call anymore, and he isn’t alone. He has friends, he has Hansol and Seungkwan, he has the gross aftertaste of milk tea plaguing his mouth. It’s just the thought of the past that’s making him feel lonely, cowardly, casting a shadow upon him.

Unlocking the door to his apartment, keys rattling in his fist, Soonyoung makes up his mind. He has to apologize seriously.

 

 

 

 

 

The Silk Line is as Soonyoung imagined. Elegant, beautiful. One of those old European-style brick buildings that contrasts the modernity of the city, drawing attention all on her own, not even to mention the gorgeous glass display that shows off a row of impeccably crafted suits on mannequins. He isn’t even in the store and he feels the whole thing is too expensive for him. 

He looks down at his clothes, wishing he dressed better even though he changed outfits six times. In the end, he went with something simple, just a T-shirt and jeans. Even the building managed to out-dress him, fuck.

“Hyung?”

Soonyoung turns around at breakneck speed. It’s Mingyu.

“It really is you,” Mingyu smiles. Says, a little mean, “You don’t call, you don’t text. I thought you were really dead.”

Soonyoung smiles weakly and opens his arms as though to say, _well. Here I am. Raised from the dead._ “I’m not dead.”

“Yeah, clearly. What are you doing here?”

“Uhm. I’m here to talk to Myungho.”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything, but the semi-pinched look on his face means he’s thinking. “I heard you two met last week at the party.”

“Yeah.” Soonyoung wills his resolve not to budge. He looks Mingyu dead in the eye. “I’m here to apologize for real.”

Mingyu laughs, equal parts surprised and pleased. No doubt, Minghao told him about the dumb shit Soonyoung said on the deck. “Okay.”

He enters the shop and holds the door open for Soonyoung, leading him in. The inside of the shop matches its exterior. All gorgeous dark wood.

“Myungho,” he says, Soonyoung’s eyes bobbing up over his shoulder. “You got some time before your ten o’clock?”

“Yeah, why?”

Soonyoung’s stomach twists. Minghao’s flipping through his appointment book, distracted.

“Great. I got a client for you.” He steps out of the way, revealing Soonyoung completely, and just walks off as Minghao and Soonyoung both stare after him.

Minghao sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, a new habit Soonyoung’s never seen him do before. “Are you really here for a suit?”

“No.” 

“Then leave.”

Soonyoung considers it for a split second. But no. Just as he rehearsed, he says, “I know I have no right to ask you this, and if you tell me to leave again, I will. But can we talk? Just for ten minutes.”

Minghao stares at him coolly. He turns on his heel and walks toward the coffee bar. “Do you still hate coffee?”

Soonyoung quickly walks after him. “Uhm, yeah.”

Minghao walks behind the counter and gestures for Soonyoung to take a seat on one of the barstools. He washes his hands thoroughly at the sink, dries his hands on a towel, and measures out coffee beans into a portafilter and into a grinder.

“I’m sorry for how I apologized at the party. That’s not what I wanted to say. Saying it like that, it isn’t…good enough. It wasn’t right.” 

Minghao doesn’t hesitate while preparing the espresso, not even as Soonyoung fidgets before him. He tamps down the grind and locks the portafilter into the espresso machine, steadily pressing the lever down and extracting the espresso. The gear behind the counter shines a mean silver, including Minghao’s jewelry, but a cursory glance tells Soonyoung he doesn’t wear as much jewelry as he used to. His ear piercings are all gone.

“So,” Soonyoung says breathlessly, watching Minghao steam milk. “I’m here to apologize properly. I’m sorry for how I treated you in the past, I regret it so much. I should’ve—I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve done it in person.”

Minghao silently places the latte in front of him. A perfectly centered heart looks up at him.

“You deserved so much better. I’m sorry.”

“It’s in the past.”

“Still,” Soonyoung’s hands automatically coming up to warm around the cup, “isn’t it worth apologizing for?”

“It’s only worth it if you think about it often, but I don’t think about you anymore.”

 _There._ Again. Another thing Soonyoung doesn’t recognize about him. Minghao turns away from the counter and firmly taps the portafilter against a knock box, emptying the wet grinds into the steel container. He watches the steady line of Minghao’s shoulders, the realization rising slow within him. Minghao’s trying to hurt him.

Soonyoung doesn’t know what to say next. He didn’t rehearse for this. His hands tighten around the cup, the heat of it growing unbearable.

“Not even a little?” he jokes weakly.

It gets a mean laugh out of Minghao. “You’re still doing that, huh?”

“Doing what?”

“Acting cute when you’re cornered.”

Soonyoung furrows his brows. “I don’t do that.”

“You do. You think all it takes for you to get out of trouble is to play cute because you’re the youngest in your family. It must be nice to be so loved. You don’t know the cost of love, so you can easily throw it away.”

“Are you kidding me?” Anger licks up Soonyoung’s throat, threatening to spark out. He stands so abruptly the cup rattles, the latte splashing out into the saucer.

Minghao stands his fucking ground. Does not give, does not move.

Soonyoung curls his lip and turns sharply to leave. He barely walks two steps before Minghao sneers, “Running is all you know how to do, you coward.”

He snaps his head around, the anger consuming him like a flame. “You don’t know shit. And show some goddamn respect, I’m your hyung.”

“Yeah? Big man. You maintain distance with me when it’s convenient to you and now that it’s not, here you are, on my doorstep demanding my respect. _You_ must be kidding _me._ ”

The bell above the door chimes cheerfully. Minghao looks away and Soonyoung—he gets it. He gets the fuck out of there, paces out into the humid morning where the sun blinds him.

Seoul’s heat wave holds strong. 

 

 

 

 

 

Soonyoung works overtime for a week straight. He does it all. He scrubs the floor of the choreography room until it shines, he replaces the water cooler even though he can never get it right and it takes three tries to get the cap on tight without dripping water. He fucking—for fuck’s sake, he choreographs a dance for each song off Drake’s endless _Scorpion_  album.

Minghao rings through his head. _You don’t know the cost of love_.

Returning home required a sacrifice. Filial piety is a thirsty fucking beast. It drinks its fill in blood and operates in equals. To return home, you must lose a home. To gain love? You must lose a love.

He sacrificed Minghao’s love and a life where he would be happy and returned home, and in the end, he wasn’t even able to stay. Again, he left for Seoul. The cost of love is always greater than what it’s worth.

Soonyoung stops the music. He turns off all the lights and lays on the floor, right next to the yellow lane of light sliced across the floor from the narrow door window. He places his hand in the light. The AC whirrs quietly in the background.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there. He would’ve stayed there all night if Chan’s giant head didn’t block out the light, laying the shadow of his head in Soonyoung’s open palm. The heavy door swings open slowly.

“Hyung?” Chan says.

Soonyoung waves a limp hand. “Right here.”

“Are…you okay?”

“I will be,” he says, turning over onto his stomach. “What’s up?”

“There’s a guy in a suit asking for you at the front desk. I think you’re being audited.” The light from the hallway burns Soonyoung’s unblinking eyes. Chan laughs nervously. “You’re not gonna laugh?” 

Soonyoung laughs.

“Not like that, that’s creepy. Should I tell him you’re coming?”

“Uhm. How tall is he?”

“Pretty tall, broad too.” 

Soonyoung gets up and puts on his jacket, zipping it up. “I’ll go out by myself.”

“Okay. Don’t push yourself too much.”

“You too,” he says, but Chan doesn’t look reassured.

Soonyoung walks down the hallway and takes the elevator to the first floor. He sees Mingyu immediately once he steps out and the metal doors slide shut behind him. As usual, he’s dressed up, wearing a dark sport coat layered on top of a gray double-breasted waistcoat that matches his trousers. His tie is perfectly dimpled. Two things flash through Soonyoung’s mind, coming and going as quickly as he can blink: he’s been wearing the same clothes for the past two days, and he regrets telling Minghao he works at Pledis.

“Are you here about Myungho?”

“No, I’m not here for him.”

“Then why are you here?”

Mingyu turns on the motherfucking _charm._ He smiles. “To have dinner with you.”

Soonyoung squints at the whiteness of his teeth. And Minghao thinks he plays cute. “But I don’t want to?”

“Hey,” Mingyu says, voice dipping into a slight whine. “We were friends first before you met Myungho. We can’t catch up?”

“You’re not trying to set me up or anything, are you?”

“We’re not young anymore.” Mingyu steps away from the receptionist desk. The look of him here, so handsome in a suit, confirms that a great deal of time has passed since they first met. There’s a confidence to him that only comes with age. “What’s between you and Myungho has nothing to do with me.”

He looks sincere. Soonyoung decides to trust him. Minghao isn’t the only person he’s missed.

“Should we get barbecue? Or are you still weird about the smoke?”

“Weird?” They fall into step beside one another as they exit the building. “You’d be weird about it too if you wore a million won on your shoulders alone.”

“You’re right,” Soonyoung says, sighing as he tries to massage the tension out of his shoulder. “I only wear three million won sport coats.”

Mingyu sputters. “Seriously?”

Soonyoung laughs. “Of course not.”

At the restaurant, Mingyu sheds his jacket and rolls his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. He gets rid of his tie and undoes the top button of his shirt.

“I’m dedicated to style but even more dedicated to food,” Mingyu says lamely as he cuts up the _galbi_ over the smoking grill.

“But didn’t you burn the meat last time?”

“What?” Mingyu pretends he can’t hear him over the sound of the sizzling grill. “I can’t hear you.”

Pretending’s over when the _soju_ arrives. Mingyu drinks two cups; Soonyoung leaves his untouched.

“What happened, hyung? You wouldn’t even talk to me. You could’ve at least told me you were leaving, why did I have to hear it from Myungho?” 

Soonyoung guiltily piles Mingyu’s plate with meat. He doesn’t even realize it until Mingyu covers his plate with his hand and tells him to stop. He places down the tongs, the energy suddenly going away from him.

“I didn’t see it back then,” he says, the heat from the grill evaporating the wetness in his eyes. “In my mind, you were like…indistinguishable from Myungho. We were friends but you were Myungho’s friend. Looking back at it now, I…of course, I should’ve said bye to you. I’m sorry.” 

“But what _happened?_ ”

“My parents wanted me home. They said Seoul was no good for me.”

Mingyu waits for him to continue, but he can’t.

“I mean. Like Myungho said, it’s in the past.”

“It’s not if it still hurts you,” Mingyu says.

Soonyoung bites the inside of his cheek. “Forget about me. What about you? How was your apprenticeship?”

Mingyu groans. “I wish we went to Hong Kong instead. I hated it, but it’s much more impressive if people see we trained under a master tailor in Europe. But whatever, that’s in the past too, isn’t it?" 

They kind of just stare at each other after that. Like, two people relearning each other. Soonyoung drinks his cup of _soju._  

“It is,” Soonyoung says, placing the cup down on the table firmly.

“Whatever happened between you and I is over,” Mingyu declares, making a _ssam_ and stuffing it into his mouth. “Let’s be friends again.”

“I don’t think Myungho would be cool with this.” 

Mingyu looks thoughtful, still chewing. “I prioritize Myungho’s feelings, but I have my own feelings toward you too. I mean, we were friends for so long, even before you and Myungho got together.”

“It’s different between friends because I trust that whatever you had to leave for was a good reason, but it’s different for a lover. That kind of betrayal, I don’t know if a lover could ever get over it.” He grins wide, like he didn’t just gut Soonyoung. “But a friend could.”

Mingyu offers his hand over the heat of the grill, fingers shining wet from the lettuce.

Soonyoung knows he’ll remember this forever, because the moment is so bizarre. Mingyu offering him a wet hand, and Soonyoung, looking at the shine of his fingers beneath the light and thinking, with a conviction he didn’t feel before, that he needs to let this shit go. All of it.

He slaps his hand into Mingyu’s and squeezes firmly.

 

 

 

 

 

As always, instead of returning home with something Soonyoung might actually like, Hansol brings him a bootleg copy of a horror movie, but all is forgiven when he pulls out a pack of Skittles he saved from the airport. They share the bag and marvel at Sigourney Weaver ejecting the Alien into space and spearing it through the chest with a grappling hook. 

“I’ve been thinking about filial piety lately,” Hansol says. The Alien hangs out the spaceship like a shit you can’t get rid of, clinging to the propellers.

“Uh-huh.” Soonyoung’s not really listening. He’s too invested in Ridley’s survival.

“I admire you a lot, hyung.”

That gets his attention. He turns to look at Hansol who’s focused on the screen. He can hear fire—Ridley hits the rocket propellers and the whole TV screen turns white, engulfing Hansol’s face in a bright light. His eyes are wide, trying to drink in the scene even as he keeps talking.

“Even though we’re raised with all these ideals of what a perfect son and a good man should be like, those qualities are actually just what it means to be a good person. You ever think about that?”

“All the time,” Soonyoung says, with heart, turning back to the screen.

The conversation hangs between them. Hansol picks it up when the rockets dim.

“And yet, given all that, you still tried to live according to how you feel. That’s admirable. For someone as loving as you, for someone who has such a strong sense of duty, you tried to live honestly.”

The credits roll. Hansol crawls forward and takes the disc out of the player. “Yeah,” he says, snapping it back into its case, “I admire you. Whatever anyone says about you being a coward, it’s untrue.”

“I love you,” Soonyoung says, heart clenching.

Hansol grins. “I love you too.”

That night, he lays sleepless in bed, trying to wait out these feelings. Not that it’s a big deal or anything. After all this time and what seemed to be eternal misery, it’s just nice to be told his effort counts, and is acknowledged.

Because he always tried. Is still trying now, a mean fucking feat, given the first time he ever tried to be honest, his parents had no clue what to do with him.

 

 

 

 

 

Back then, in his college apartment where he spent two-thirds of his time studying and the other one-third watching Minghao cook, the smell of _samgyetang_ gripped his belly, and bravery overtook him. It was the miracle of Minghao. It made you want to be better.

“Well,” Soonyoung said. “To be honest. Do you—do you remember my friend? Myungho?”

A pause. Soonyoung heard his mother’s breathing over the line. His father proceeded cautiously. “Why is he coming up in this conversation?”

Soonyoung squeezed the bravery from his soul. Later, he’d wonder if things would’ve gone better if he did it in person, but he’d realize it would’ve been all the same.

“Well—he and I—”

“Son,” his father said, cutting him off. His sweet father. “No more of this. You understand? You don’t know what it takes to be a man in this world. You’ve lost your idea of manliness. Remember what we taught you? It is your duty to the family to continue the line.”

 Soonyoung froze. Cracked, and stammered, “But noona—”

“You think a daughter can carry the line? She’ll marry out of the family; the name dies with her. A daughter can’t do what a son can.”

He gripped the phone tight in his hand. He was raised to be a good, filial son. And he was. There wasn’t anybody out there more filial than he was. He was cursed with it. 

His mother’s voice came over the line, low and disembodied. “You’re graduating soon. Why don’t you come home?”

When he moved out of his hometown for the second and the last time, he decided to never exist in this world again as a coward. Soonyoung made that decision his own fucking self. No way he’s about to walk it back.

 

 

 

 

 

One day, the barista slips a folded receipt into the cardboard sleeve of his drink. Soonyoung brings it all the way back to work without noticing it. It isn’t until he’s halfway done with his drink that he notices it. It’s damp with condensation. When he unfolds it, he sees it’s the barista’s name and number. 

The first thing that comes to mind, it flashes like a huff of laughter, _but I already know your name?_

The second thing is the delicate curve of Wonwoo’s inner wrist. Hands unadorned, practiced and confident at their craft. Soonyoung had marveled at his wrists, heard angels singing when he gripped the pour-over kettle and the coffee bloomed beneath the stream of water. In actuality, it was only Seungkwan talking in his ear, saying their drinks were ready.

Soonyoung has a rule. Ever since he was a kid, he decided to go out with anyone who confessed to him. Anyone with that kind of courage, he liked. So he plugs Wonwoo’s number into his phone and texts him. No fucking around.

_Let’s go on a date._

 

 

 

 

 

The date goes well. It’s the first time in a long while Soonyoung’s felt engaged during a date. Wonwoo is attractive in many ways. Intelligent, attentive, one of those people you look at and think, _you were raised well._

They go to a café and Wonwoo pays, charming Soonyoung into the next dimension.

“What is it?” Wonwoo asks.

“Well.” Soonyoung bites back a smile and tells him about his first ever date. He had been so charmed by her, too. On their first date, she busted out her wallet and Soonyoung bust a nut. “Because she, you know.” He gestured vaguely.

“Subverted traditional gender roles?”

Soonyoung grins, wide. “Yeah. My parents are old-fashioned. They raised me to be a man’s man, so when she paid I was so touched by it. I really liked it.”

“Rather than being treated traditionally, we want to be treated fairly,” Wonwoo says, hands bracketing his tea. “I understand. I feel it myself.”

“Yeah,” Soonyoung says, pleased from being understood.

They spend hours at the café getting to know each other. Afterward, Wonwoo takes him to a bookstore and they browse the aisles together. He glances over the new arrivals and asks if Soonyoung enjoys reading.

“I read manga sometimes. And nutrition labels.” Both a lie, Soonyoung hasn’t read manga or a nutrition label in a year.

Still, they go over to the manga section and talk about anime. Soonyoung holds the first volume of Yu-Gi-Oh! to his chest and tells Wonwoo Yami was his first ever crush.

Wonwoo smiles at him. “He was everybody’s first crush.”

At the end of their date, before they leave the bookstore, Wonwoo picks up a book from the new arrivals section. He reads the summary, then flips open to the first page. It looks like he’s interested in it.

“Let me buy it for you,” Soonyoung says. “You paid for coffee.”

Wonwoo’s smile is warm, eyes crinkling in pleasure. “It’s okay. You can just pay for coffee next time.”

 

 

 

 

 

Soonyoung gets to pick the next date. He chooses an aquarium, because he thinks Wonwoo might like it, and also because he hasn’t been in an aquarium for years. He wants to go again. He’s found someone he’d like to go with.

He tries to pick a better outfit this time. Their last date, he was a little underdressed.

“Oh yeah, wear that.” Hansol fits two Pringles into his mouth, pretending it’s a beak. His phone is down on the table; Soonyoung gets an unattractive view of his underchin.

“Are you serious?” Soonyoung’s wearing all three primary colors. He doesn’t feel very cute and says so.

“Wanna borrow something?”

Soonyoung sighs. Hansol’s wardrobe isn’t any better. “No thanks.”

He tries to video call Seungkwan instead once Hansol has grievously failed him, but Seungkwan doesn’t pick up. Instead, he texts Soonyoung a photo of himself in the recording studio, eyes wide, bloodshot, and pressed up to the camera.

Soonyoung texts Hansol, _Seungkwan’s losing it. Get in there._

Hansol texts back, _k._

He goes back to unearthing the bowels of his closet. When all seems hopeless, he texts Mingyu for help, sending him a photo of his outfit he took in front of his filthy floor mirror, and in typical Mingyu-fashion, he arrives within the hour with a bottle of glass cleaner.

“You’re—” Mingyu clutches his fucking pearls, “—mixing patterns.”

“So? You do it all the time.”

“It’s not the same. I do it right.” Mingyu sheds his jacket and rolls up his sleeves. “Show me your closet and get rid of that beret.”

And so what is meant to be a casual exchange becomes Mingyu purging his entire closet, and vigorously wiping his floor mirror clean.

“You dress ten years younger than you should,” Mingyu says absently, holding up one of Soonyoung’s sweaters and looking at himself in the mirror. “This looks good on me." 

Soonyoung sputters. “You’re supposed to be helping me.”

“I didn’t say I’d do it for free. Can I have this?” 

Well, whatever. It’s a sweater he hasn’t worn in years. “If you can help me choose an outfit in the next twenty minutes, it’s yours.”

Mingyu does more than that. He insults his wardrobe within an inch of its life and gets him right for his date.

“You’re almost thirty,” he says, straightening out Soonyoung’s collar and smoothing down the folds of his button-up. “No more cropped trousers, okay?”

“I just turned twenty-eight.”

“Almost thirty,” Mingyu repeats, with emphasis.

“Get out of my apartment.”

Mingyu grins. They end up leaving together, descending the stairs of Soonyoung’s apartment complex, Mingyu holding the folded sweater beneath his arm. At the base of the staircase, they go their separate ways.

“Have a good time tonight, hyung. Text me when you get home.”

“I’ll text you these nuts,” Soonyoung calls after him.

“You’re halfway to sixty,” Mingyu shouts back, “should you really be talking like that?”

Hanging out with him leaves Soonyoung with a good feeling all the way to the aquarium where he waits for Wonwoo, hands clasped in front of him, holding two tickets and a map.

Just like the previous date, things go well. Wonwoo is pleasant to be with. They walk the aquarium slowly, Wonwoo dipping his head to read the plaques in the dark while Soonyoung marvels at the fish. He reads Soonyoung the most impressive features, a kind of attentiveness he enjoys.

The deeper they walk into the aquarium, beneath the blue tunnel that curves beneath one of the giant tanks, the more Soonyoung wishes he could feel what he wants to feel. The warm line of their shoulders pressed together does no more to warm his heart or build his affection.

All he feels is that something is missing.

 

 

 

 

 

Months pass. Soonyoung finds another café to frequent and finds he doesn’t mind.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s good to have Mingyu back. They pick up their friendship right where they left off, meeting for lunch, complaining about work, Soonyoung still on a mission going on eight years strong to pry one of Mingyu’s secret family recipes out of his hands. 

Today, they’re supposed to meet at a café, but Mingyu is nowhere to be seen. He even picked the place. The ceiling is high, the windows are wide and tall and wash the café in sunlight. It’s one of those new places, the ones with maple wood chairs and tables chosen specifically to create a light and airy space.

Soonyoung takes a seat in the back, face turned to the wall. Mingyu always criticizes him for it, asking him what he’d do if a murderer snuck up behind him.

He waits for Mingyu. After ten minutes, he still doesn’t arrive or text.

Soonyoung texts, _???_

Chat bubbles appear. Disappear. Then Mingyu gives up trying to articulate himself through text and calls.

“Hey, I’m here. Where are you?”

“Myungho found out,” Mingyu says guiltily. Then, quickly, he says, “Not that I was hiding it or anything. Anyway, he recognized the sweater you gave me.”

Soonyoung looks out the window, annoyed Mingyu’s telling him this. He should’ve just made an excuse. “So you’re not coming?”

He hears Minghao’s voice in the background. His heart betrays him and leaps. He’s too far away from the mic for Soonyoung to hear what he’s saying, but undeniably, that’s his voice. 

“Well,” Mingyu says hesitantly. “Minghao wants to come meet you. He says you can leave if you want, but he’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Silence. Soonyoung stares at the empty chair in front of him.

“Hyung?”

“Is he gonna insult me again?” 

Mingyu covers the mic with his hand, then uncovers it seconds later. He says, “No.”

So Soonyoung waits. He checks the time on his phone. He isn’t scared anymore. Meeting Minghao, whatever it entails, is gonna be fine.

Ten minutes pass. Soonyoung hears footsteps behind him. He kind of wishes he listened to Mingyu and sat on the other side of the table facing the door, but it’s too late now. He doesn’t twist his head over his shoulder either to make sure it’s Minghao—he wants to be cool about this.

He hears Minghao first, then smells his perfume, before ever seeing him.

Minghao’s elegant hand comes into vision. He places a tall glass of tea in front of Soonyoung. Soonyoung looks up Minghao’s hand, past the gold watch on his wrist, up the impeccably tailored sleeve of his suit jacket. He’s wearing a dark brown suit, a silk black tie with delicate gold flowers on it made up into a Prince Albert knot. Four years in England turned him into a stone-cold fox, allowed him to unlock six straight levels of elegance previously unknown to him.

They meet eyes. Minghao inclines his head politely. He places his cup on the table, pops the button of his jacket, and folds himself into the chair. He wastes no time. He’s still the same, in that way. Deadly efficient.

“I’m sorry for how I acted before,” he says, face a little pained. “Seeing you…I haven’t been myself since. I was still angry. I wasn’t prepared to see you, but that's never an excuse.”

“I get it,” Soonyoung says. He really does. “I’m sorry, too.” 

They share a silence. Soonyoung cools his hands around the glass, hesitantly breaking the silence.

“Are you angry at Mingyu?”

“No.” Minghao crosses his legs, fits the length of them beneath the narrow table. “I understand. And I can’t be angry anymore, it’s bad for my digestion.” 

“It’s…bad for my digestion,” Soonyoung repeats, because of course that’s something Minghao would say. He feels his face loosen and his nervousness slip away. “You talk like you’re old.”

“I’m getting old.” Minghao rolls his shoulders for emphasis. “I can’t work as long as I used to.”

“It’s because you’re always hunched over your work table.”

“What about you? You’re dancing into early arthritis.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. Mingyu keeps saying I’m halfway to sixty.”

Minghao laughs. “But he’s right?”

“No,” Soonyoung insists, trying not to pout. “I’m eternally young.”

Minghao’s phone rings. Without glancing at the number, he switches it off and places it back into his pocket as though to say—my attention is all on you.

Soonyoung takes a sip from his drink. He tries not to look surprised. It’s jasmine green tea, lightly sweetened and light on the ice, floral and refreshing for an oppressively hot day like today. Minghao watches him as he sets down the glass. Soonyoung knows he’s wondering if he got it right, but he doesn’t want to give him the pleasure of knowing.

That, he keeps for himself. After all these years, his tastes haven’t changed much, his favorite iced drink is still jasmine green tea.

“How was your apprenticeship?” 

“Horrible.”

Soonyoung grins from how quickly Minghao responds.

“I could’ve never prepared myself for what it really means to be a tailor. Obviously, the world is elitist. You’re supplying clothing to powerful wealthy men—but it’s not just any clothing. You’re helping them deliver a statement. A suit is a declaration of power and order, especially if it’s bespoke.”

Minghao brings a hand around his cup, thumbing the handle. “All I wanted was to make suits, that was my passion. Looking back at it now, it was a very childish desire. Before I realized it, I became part of a system that validates rich men.”

Soonyoung forgot what Minghao felt like, but he’s remembering now. The reserved calmness of him that always made Soonyoung feel like he was being read. But then, how could he have forgotten? It was his favorite thing about him.

“I feel the same way,” Soonyoung says slowly. “About dancing. I didn’t expect it either. Even though your intentions are harmless…like, you wanna be happy and do what makes you happy, you find out it isn’t like that. There’s always something bigger than you. But—but I would never say this out loud.”

He’s always found it difficult to articulate himself, but with Minghao it comes easily even after all these years. “It feels ungrateful when my job is the reason my family and I can live comfortably, I refuse to say it.” 

Minghao taps his index finger against the mug, ring clinking. “Does it feel so wrong to want to be happy?”

“Yes. But it’s not like I’m unhappy. I’m, like, in between. I think that’s the secret of being an adult.”

“It is,” Minghao agrees.

“You can’t agree with me, you’re barely an adult,” Soonyoung says as Minghao turns his head and laughs. “You’re still young.”

“We’re a year apart.”

“A year and five months.”

“But isn’t it nice to grow older? I’m looking forward to it. You can only improve yourself from here on out.”

Soonyoung uses his hand as a visor, squinting. “Your optimism is blinding.”

“Maybe so.” Minghao smiles at him. “I guess it’s because I’m not halfway to sixty yet.”

Soonyoung’s phone lights up on the table, vibrating. He glances down at it and sees the blurry photo Mingyu took of himself in the dim barbecue joint, eyes closed with a peace sign pressed up to his face. He was too buzzed to retake the photo. Soonyoung picks up.

“Either you killed Minghao or he switched his phone off—whichever it is, revive him and tell him he needs to come back, there’s a walk-in requesting him.”

Soonyoung just hands his phone over to Minghao, their hands brushing. Minghao presses Soonyoung’s phone against his ear and narrows his eyes in annoyance from being disturbed. All the same, he gets up to leave.

He buttons his suit and hands Soonyoung his phone back. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“It’s okay.”

Minghao seems to hesitate. But it’s gone before Soonyoung can blink. “Can we meet again?”

He tightens his grip on the base of the glass, looking up at Minghao. “Yeah.”

 

 

 

 

 

Minghao texts him later that afternoon.

_Do you want to get lunch this week?_

Soonyoung pains over it, wanting to respond but not too quickly, but this is Minghao he’s talking about, who he’s known for almost a decade. He responds within the minute.

_Yes._

And so Friday finds them out on the street walking beside one another, Soonyoung in a T-shirt and jeans, Minghao in a suit as usual. Soonyoung looks down at their feet walking in sync. Minghao’s monkstraps are sharp, like he’s hiding a knife in them. The patina shines in the sunlight.

“Your style hasn’t changed,” Minghao says.

“Yours has.”

Minghao hangs his head to the side, smiling. It makes Soonyoung’s stomach flutter, this ghost impression of a boy he once knew, seeing that Minghao still retains some of his boyish mannerisms.

“It’s because of work. I can’t look so flashy anymore.”

Soonyoung laughs. “What are you talking about? You’re way flashier now.”

“In a different way though, right? I look like you could trust me with your bank account.”

“Is that what you call this style? There’s casual, chic, formal, and _you can trust me with your bank account._ ”

Minghao can’t stop laughing. He presses their shoulders together. “You know what I mean.”

“So?” Soonyoung says, turning to look at Minghao. He gives him a little nudge with his shoulder. “How has your style changed?”

“Why ask a question you already know?”

He likes the way Minghao talks: _you know what I mean; you already know,_ intertwining them without pretense. Soonyoung circles around Minghao who stops walking and allows himself to be inspected.

“Your ear piercings closed up,” Soonyoung says, pretending to notice it just now. Minghao seems pleased by the observation. “You wear less jewelry now. A watch, a bracelet, and a ring on each hand.”

Minghao starts walking again. “And?”

“You mix your metals now.”

Minghao grins. “Yup.” 

“I thought you hated that.”

“Not anymore, it feels like I’m maintaining some of my style from when I was young. What else, hyung?”

That’s all Soonyoung notices. He looks a little harder but can’t find anything else until a breeze hits, cutting through the stagnant heat for just a second. It carries Minghao’s perfume, cutting through Soonyoung too. It still has the same base notes as the perfume Minghao used to wear, familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

“You changed your perfume.”

“You’re observant,” Minghao says, like he’s proud of him. He walks up to the door of a family restaurant and holds it open for Soonyoung.

“Thank you,” he says, shy.

Soonyoung tells himself five years isn’t that long. People don’t change that much in five years, not at the core. Being here with Minghao, watching as he hands back the menus to the restaurant owner with both hands, is nostalgic.

“What did you feel, having to change your style for your job?” 

Minghao thinks for a while. “I was upset. Having to change my style felt symbolic of losing a part of myself for the sake of success, but I don’t know anyone who’s gotten to where they are without sacrificing something. I think we all sacrifice individuality, don’t we?" 

“That’s what it takes. Whenever you want something, like,” Soonyoung purses his lips, unable to find the right words. “Success.”

Minghao smiles. “Do you think people are really happy?”

“No.”

Minghao’s huffs in laughter. It gets Soonyoung to grin too.

“I’m serious,” he says, both hands on the edge of the table as he leans forward. “I don’t think happiness is all that real. I think we’re all just doing ok, and then sometimes we’re happy.”

Minghao keeps laughing. In that moment, when the food hits the table and Minghao is staring at him over the curling steam of the _bulgogi_ , Soonyoung knows what he said is untrue. He just wanted to see Minghao laugh.

Soonyoung rearranges the side dishes to make room for the bowl of cold noodles. The condensation building on the outside of the metal bowl cools his warm palms. He glances at Minghao. “Do you want some?”

“I don’t eat cold things,” Minghao says, picking up a pickled cucumber. “Did you forget?”

“Who’d forget such an extreme dietary restriction?” Soonyoung dips his spoon into the broth, chewing on the ice. “I didn’t wanna be rude if you changed.”

“Thank you. Though, I haven’t changed much, hyung.”

They share a moment where they just stare each other. The summer sun, so warm before, burns the side of Soonyoung’s face. Minghao breaks eye contact first, tilting his head downward, teeth scraping lightly against the metal chopsticks. 

“Have you?” Minghao asks.

“Five years is a long time.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Soonyoung purses his lips. “Four years in England and suddenly you’re all authoritative, huh? They did a number on you.”

Minghao sputters in laughter.

“What are you gonna do next, huh? Take my resources?”

“Hyung,” he says. “Come on.”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer until way later, when the noodles are drained from the broth and he’s pleasantly full. He leans against the booth and watches Minghao drink his tea. He places his cup down, shifting out of the booth to get up, only Soonyoung blocks his way with his leg.

Minghao stares at his leg, then at Soonyoung. “I need to use the restroom.” 

“No you don’t,” Soonyoung says, steeling his leg when Minghao tries to push past it. “That’s such an old trick, Myungho. Sit down. I’m paying.”

“Are you really going to fight me on this?”

Soonyoung thinks _yes,_ but says, “I changed for the better. I’m better, now.”

Minghao doesn’t move. Soonyoung takes it as his chance to get up and pay, slipping past Minghao who tries to grab him but hesitates, letting his hand fall back down. 

It's hard not to think about Minghao after that. Just from seeing him twice, Soonyoung can't think about anything else, only he doesn't have the right to even fantasize about Minghao. He tries to stop, but the feeling. It builds.

  

 

 

 

 

Seoul’s heatwave ends abruptly, parting with a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning preceding a rain so heavy you could lose a hand in it.

Soonyoung’s on Minghao’s side of the city when it starts raining. It’s late—he just got out of a dinner with his coworkers. He calls over the only taxi on the street and gets everyone in, swiping his card before sending everyone home.

“What about you, hyung?” Chan says, ducking his head into the car. “How are you gonna get home?”

“It’s fine, I’ll call another taxi.” Soonyoung carefully closes the passenger door once Chan folds his legs in. “Get home safely.”

“You too," he says, smiling.

Soonyoung waits beneath the awning but doesn’t see a single taxi even after ten minutes. He decides to just run the distance. It isn’t until he gets one-third of the way that he realizes his spatial awareness is shit, and his place is actually much farther then he thought. Luckily, he recognizes the area. He’s close to the Silk Line.

It only takes Soonyoung five minutes to get there, the rain dripping into his eyes. The Silk Line glows warm beyond the rain; he steps beneath the awning and shakes out his hair, squeezing the water from his clothes.

Now that he’s actually here, he doesn’t know what to do. He could stay here and call a taxi, but he doesn’t want to get into a taxi wet. He wants to see Minghao. If it's like this, storming out, then it's okay, right?

He stands, looking at the heavy wood door with its golden handle. If he knocks and no one answers, he’ll go home.

He knocks. Once, twice, thrice, and waits.

The deadbolt flips on the other side, and then the door is opening, Soonyoung stepping back to give it space. The warm light from inside the shop passes across his face inch by inch.

Minghao looks surprised. “Hyung, what are you doing?”

Soonyoung grins nervously. “Can I come in?”

Minghao steps out of the way and lets him in, closing the door behind him. He hands him a change of clothes and takes him to one of the fitting rooms to change. Soonyoung slowly pulls the shirt over his head, the smell of Minghao’s perfume and detergent enveloping him. When he walks back out, there’s tea waiting for him at the coffee bar.

“I’m a little busy right now,” Minghao says apologetically. “Do you mind coming with me to the back? I’m working on a suit right now.”

“Of course not. I can just leave if you’re busy.”

“I want you to stay,” he says, already turning around and walking down the hallway past the fitting rooms. His suspenders sit firmly over his shoulders, running down the length of his slender back. “Come on, bring your tea." 

Soonyoung pads over to the counter and carefully brings the tea into the workroom. As always, Minghao’s choice is correct. _Longjing_ perfectly measured, steeped, and strained into a mug.

The workroom is pristine. There’s mannequins and shelves filled with bolts of fabric, and a large wooden worktable with steel legs Minghao stands behind to resume tracing patterns from a sheet of dark blue fabric, his heavy cutting shears placed next to him on the table. Soonyoung sits on the other side of the table and watches him. He swings his legs. 

It almost feels like they’re in college again. Soonyoung used to keep Minghao company in the fashion department’s workrooms. It’s where Minghao taught him about formal wear. No black unless you were going to a funeral or a wedding, _definitely_ a break on the trouser, double vent or don’t buy a suit at all, unless of course you were looking for a double-breasted suit, in which case no vents. He taught Soonyoung a thousand ways to fold a pocket square, and the only way to tie a dress shoe properly—or any shoe, for that matter.

Most of it Soonyoung forgot. Like, he only knows four ways to fold a pocket square now, which doesn’t even matter because he hasn’t touched a pocket square in years. But there’s one thing he’ll never forget. It had been an offhanded comment as Minghao sewed buttonholes into a jacket sleeve, something Minghao must’ve not expected him to remember. But he did. 

Minghao said lowly, distractedly, that the sensuality of seamed stockings was unmatched. There was no equivalent, but if he had to choose one it’d be suspenders, except since it was popularized as an accessory instead of underwear like it was meant to be, its sensuality was sapped. It was much better if people knew it was meant to be hidden; not for public eyes but for your partner’s eyes only.

But still, wasn’t the sensuality of it evident? Seamed stockings drew a line up the back of the thigh, up under the skirt, and suspenders bracketed the shoulders, the chest and waist, the hips. _Sexy,_ Minghao had said, possessed with sleeplessness and caffeine.

Soonyoung follows the line of Minghao’s suspenders, blinking fast. He drinks to wet his throat. “Mingyu’s not here?”

Minghao finishes tracing the patterns onto the fabric and begins cutting. He picks up his shears, slowly cutting into the fabric. “He left a while ago. Said he had a date.”

“Oh. Good for him.”

“Yeah. He found someone good. I’m envious.” The shears slice through the fabric, the sound of it sharp. “I’ve had serious relationships but none of them worked out. They were never like what you and I had.”

Minghao isn’t even looking at him. He keeps cutting the fabric. Soonyoung tightens his hands around the mug, a little confused. “You just need to date more.”

Minghao’s hands still. The shears sound dull compared to the silence. “Is that what you really think?”

Soonyoung doesn’t know. He really doesn’t. “Yeah.”

Minghao places the shears down on the table and finally looks up. Minghao who doesn’t look so cool anymore. He’s angry and hurt, eyes hard with it. It burns the words from Soonyoung’s mouth. “Why do you act like what we had is common? You really think it’s something everyone has?”

They stare at each other in silence until Soonyoung says, “You were going to England.”

“Is that really the reason why you left?”

Soonyoung can’t handle this, shit. All he can do is get up, turn away, avoid everything. But he doesn’t walk away. He stands, planted to the ground, and then his mouth is twisting painfully, his feelings regurgitating itself after so long. “I was scared _._ ”

Again, silence.

“What were you scared of?” comes Minghao’s voice, quiet.

Soonyoung keeps his back turned. He bites his lip. 

“Hyung,” Minghao says again. “Please.”

Soonyoung tells Minghao about the shame, about his family’s inquisition and their eventual disownment of him. He tells Minghao about the dark year after college. He tells him about the fear of staying with him because he had known at the time, on the cusp of graduating, that Minghao was it. Staying with Minghao meant staying for good and being rejected by his family. Because the shit they had is _abnormal._  

Rare is the soulmate, the perfect match like driving a lifetime of mediocre cars only to find yourself in a Benz. A ride so smooth, a fit so unreal, it seriously felt like Anthy riding Utena past the crushing pressure of two tankwheels, impaling Akio and the dreamworld bullshit he represented on the way out. A true S-class.

Even just being near Minghao, just standing next to him on the sidewalk as they both pretend they’re not affected by the heat, Soonyoung feels so fucking good. There’s no way to measure how incredible it feels to return to the arms of someone who knows you best and wants you to be the best.

“I’m sorry,” Soonyoung says, trying not to cry. After all these years, he did not cry, not once. It’s pointless to cry when he already lost so much. The tears itched his eyes, suspended and bubbled at the edge of his vision. “It’s not a big deal anymore.”

He hears the gentle click of Minghao’s shoes before feeling his hands upon him. Minghao takes the cup and sets it aside, enveloping Soonyoung’s hands in his own.

“I’m so sorry you went through that, hyung. I wish—I wish you hadn’t. You must’ve been so sad and alone.”

Minghao says nothing after that. When Soonyoung begins to cry silently with only the heave of his shoulders giving him away, he thumbs the tears away until there is nothing left.

Outside, the rain continues to fall.

 

 

 

 

 

Soonyoung keeps Minghao’s clothes. He wears them at night, to bed.

  

 

 

 

 

Minghao makes him another latte. He places it in front of Soonyoung when he comes into the shop during his lunch break one day. 

“Try it,” he says, wiping his hands on a cloth. “It’s good, I promise.”

“That’s right, I didn’t get to try it last time.” Soonyoung gingerly lifts the cup to his mouth and drinks. It’s delicious. He can taste the quality of the ingredients. Of course, whatever Minghao does, he does in detail. He licks the foam off his top lip. “It’s good.”

Minghao’s back is turned toward the sink, but Soonyoung knows he’s pleased. “You don’t have to drink it all, I just wanted to show you coffee can be good. You want tea?”

“No,” Soonyoung says, smiling. “I’ll drink it all.”

Minghao comes around the counter, undoing the button of his jacket, and takes a seat. “You’re not wearing earrings today.”

“Oh, that’s right. I was kind of in a hurry today.” Soonyoung places down the cup and fishes his earrings out from his pocket. He dips his head to the side and tries to guide the post through his piercings. 

Minghao slides off the stool, holding out his hand. “Let me.”

Soonyoung goes red. He gives Minghao his earrings. Minghao comes close, gently pressing the post through and securing it with the backing. He definitely notices Soonyoung’s ears growing warm and red but says nothing. He just walks around Soonyoung’s back and puts in the right earring.

“Thanks,” Soonyoung croaks.

“Of course.” Minghao looks smug. He goes back to his seat and crosses his legs, resting his elbow on the counter. “I miss my earrings sometimes.”

“Wanna get them redone? I know a girl, she’s super gentle.”

“No thanks. I’ve evolved from earrings.”

Soonyoung stares at his mouth, and Minghao laughs, so fond Soonyoung wants to catapult himself over there, into his lap.

“A tongue piercing? Really, hyung?”

“You don’t know what I was thinking,” Soonyoung says, shrill, flushing down his neck. 

“You’re so easy to read.”

Soonyoung straightens up a little. “What’re you reading now? What’s on my face now?”

Minghao just side-eyes him, looking amused out of his damn mind. Soonyoung gets his ass up and comes forward to Minghao who turns his body, inviting him in.

 

 

 

  

 

At Minghao’s place, they eat something light. They aren’t that hungry, but Minghao never skips a meal; dutifully, he clears out the remnants of his fridge and cooks something quick and easy to go with the leftover _bao zai fan_ he microwaves. Soonyoung connects his phone to Minghao’s home speakers and tries to play something he might like, flipping his phone facedown when Minghao emerges from the kitchen and places the food on the table.

Something boils up inside Soonyoung. He feels overwhelmed to be here with Minghao, just from watching him pick up his chopsticks _._ He wants to tell Minghao something important, but the words are slow to come, stoppering at his chest.

He finds them while washing the dishes.

“You don’t have to,” Minghao says, leaning against the kitchen counter as he watches.

“But that’s always been our agreement. Whoever cooks, the other does the dishes.”

Minghao hums. “That’s right.”

Soonyoung carefully places a plate on the drying rack. He turns to look at Minghao. “And also. Being with you, there’s no other feeling like it. You’re it, for me. I knew it back then. I know it now.”

A smile spreads slowly across Minghao’s face. He reaches over and turns off the faucet, hand coming up the side of Soonyoung’s face, holding him, as they kiss.

Soonyoung takes off the dish gloves and gets his hands around Minghao’s waist, and then his eyes are lighting up as he draws back, breathless. “A Prince Albert. That’s what you have.”

“The dick piercing of imperialism? Don’t you know me by now?”

He laughs, holding onto every single one of Minghao’s words— _don’t you know me?_  

Minghao’s always been a little taller. He looks down, fond and imperious. Soonyoung feels himself harden, but when he tries to move away, Minghao keeps him there, in place.

“I’m never going back to England,” Minghao says, voice low and thoughtful as he walks Soonyoung backwards, into the hallway. “I couldn’t stand it there.”

Soonyoung swallows. He feels, acutely, the warmth of Minghao’s fingers bleeding through his shirt. “Uh-huh.”

“The food was awful, the weather was awful, you weren’t there.” 

Soonyoung grins so hard his jaw hurts. Minghao presses his nose against Soonyoung’s cheek and says, “Never go to England.” 

Soonyoung—laughs! He curls his hand around the crook of Minghao’s elbow and shakes with it. His hip bumps into the doorframe of Minghao’s bedroom. “Your bias is showing.”

Minghao’s eyes glimmer in the low light. He grins, and Soonyoung knows he’s thinking the _same_ shit. How can this person know me so well? “Who? Me? Because of Opium Wars one and two?” he says, voice dipping. “Never.”

The back of Soonyoung’s knees hit the edge of the bed, and then Minghao’s taking off his jacket, his tie, before climbing over him. The shadow of him draws across Soonyoung’s body like night over day, perfume coming down over him like a christening.

While watching Minghao unbutton his shirt, he remembers something from his old world history class, something about Cleopatra dipping the sails of her ship in perfume and riding into the city downwind so all would know of her arrival.

Who else but Cleopatra? Who else had the ovaries, the swagger, the mind/pussy combo so fine it cured both Caesar and Marc Antony of their funk?

The light catches on the dip of Minghao’s navel. It shines into Soonyoung’s head like a laser burning into his eye and searing into his brain—he thinks, he _thinks, oh, oh._

“It’s a double navel piercing,” Minghao says proudly, framing it in the V of his fingers. 

Soonyoung swallows to wet his throat. “It’s nice.”

Minghao laughs. “I didn’t go through so much discomfort just to be told it’s nice.”

Then, Soonyoung tells him about Cleopatra, and the next thing he knows, Minghao’s hands are on him, pulling his shirt up and off.

“Do you think—” Soonyoung gasps, “we have weird sex talk?”

“Yes.” And then Minghao’s swallowing him down.

He missed this so much it can’t be put into words. For _years,_ he pretended to have conversations with Minghao because he was so lonely and there was no one out there he wanted to see more that his heart ached with it. For years, he touched himself to the thought of Minghao. He thought of Minghao like he was medicine, as though the simple thought of him was all-healing.

“I missed you,” Soonyoung says, choked with emotion, arching into Minghao’s mouth. “I missed you.”

Minghao looks up. He rises and holds Soonyoung’s face in his hands. Says against Soonyoung’s mouth, “I missed you too. I felt sick from it.”

They kiss slow and gentle. Soonyoung draws his nails softly down Minghao’s back. Minghao murmurs, “Do you want to stop?”

“No. Do you?”

“I’ll stop when I’m dead.”

Soonyoung laughs, squirms when Minghao tightens his grip on his waist.

“How do you want it, hyung?”

“I love your cock,” Soonyoung says, knowing he’s being bolder than usual. But he wants to get this shit out. No pretending, no fucking around. Just facts. “I love your ass. I love—I love fucking you, but I love it when you fuck me. I want that.”

“Okay.” Minghao kisses his nose, his chin, his throat. “I got you.”

Minghao uncaps the lube and warms a generous amount on his fingers. He draws Soonyoung’s leg over his shoulder, pressing his clothed dick against Soonyoung’s ass and letting him feel how hard he is before stretching him out on his fingers. He absently massages Soonyoung’s hip, working a finger in, before moving his free hand to massage Soonyoung’s balls, his perineum, reducing him to a boneless, shuddering mess.

Soonyoung’s so turned on he might just explode _._ It feels like he hasn’t been laid in years. It’s hard to explain because he’s definitely fucked someone this month. It’s just that Minghao magic. Minghao gets his hands on him and, suddenly, he’s been christened with the power to fuck through steel, to cum hands-fucking-free.

Minghao doesn’t comment on how hard he is or that his cock is weeping precum like it’s brokenhearted. He slides in a second finger and pushes his fingers down and in to simulate the feeling of getting fucked. Not nearly thick enough but good, and when Minghao gets in a third finger, Soonyoung arches his back up into it, moaning, sliding a hand through the precum on his stomach and stuffing his fingers into his mouth.

“You’re—” Minghao says, clipped and choked. He rolls on a condom, slicks himself up with lube, and grips Soonyoung’s hips, dragging him forward onto his cock.

Soonyoung moans, the sound of him rising in octaves, ah, _ah, **ah.**_ He doesn’t know where to focus. On Minghao’s beautiful face or the fact that his legs are framing Minghao’s navel piercings, the brightness of them moving Soonyoung to a stupid degree. He gives up and grips the back of Minghao’s neck.

Kissing Minghao has always been a three-layer experience. First, the warm touch of his fingers, then the subtle smell of his perfume carried by his pulse; and finally, his eyes upon his own. Intense and pinning.

“You’re a slut,” Minghao says fondly, gently placing his fingers along the seam of Soonyoung’s balls, stroking downwards.

Soonyoung yelps helplessly against Minghao’s mouth and digs his nails into his shoulders. “ _You’re_ a slut.”

“That’s right,” Minghao says, kissing Soonyoung’s upper lip. “I am.”

They fuck in a slow grind. Soonyoung has to keep his fingers wrapped around the base of his cock. His stomach is so wet he’d normally be embarrassed, but today he wants Minghao to know how hot he is for him. How much he missed him.

Minghao leans back. He doesn’t let Soonyoung go anywhere, keeps him down, keeps him on his cock, lining a finger up to the length of his dick that disappears up inside Soonyoung.

“You still a size queen?” he asks, eyes black-black and unyielding.

Soonyoung laughs, chest heaving, cock drooling all over his stomach. He’s so turned on he might die. “Yeah,” he says, squirming, squeezing. “Come on.”

Minghao slides his thumb through the precum on Soonyoung’s abdomen and spreads it across his fingers. Drools in his hand for good measure, Soonyoung blinking frantically at his mouth shining with spit, before Minghao slides his finger up his ass, groaning low from the pressure against his dick.

“Holy shit, holy shit.” Soonyoung has to squeeze his eyes shut. He tries to squeeze his thighs together too, but Minghao keeps his thigh open, running his hand up to the back of his knee. 

Minghao waits until he gets used to the stretch before fucking forward once, slow. Soonyoung can do nothing but stretch his mouth open in a soundless moan. He’s gonna cum. He needs to—open his eyes. He wants to see Minghao. 

Soonyoung forces his eyes open. Minghao smiles. “Good?”

He nods, wiggles a little.

Minghao pushes in a second finger, and Soonyoung tenses his entire body, both hands flying out to twist the sheets beside his head, as he arches his back. “Oh—oh fuck—” 

Minghao reaches down to stroke his cock, but Soonyoung shakes his head desperately, says, “No—no, I can—”

He cums explosively, wailing, elbows closing in over his face, as he falls silent and keeps himself arched, chest heaving. Minghao smooths his hand up Soonyoung’s stomach, his chest, bringing out a violent shudder in him.

Minghao pulls his fingers out and just stays unmoving. He brings their foreheads together and strokes Soonyoung’s thighs, his arms, his face. He kisses Soonyoung’s cheek, his nose. It isn’t until Soonyoung comes down from his orgasm that he begins to grind forward, groaning softly.

“Soonyoung,” he says. “Soonyoung.”

Soonyoung holds Minghao’s face in his hands, staring up at him in pure adoration. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, cheeks flushed.

Minghao looks like he could eat him whole. He moves his hand up Soonyoung’s throat, gripping his jaw, ring digging into his skin. Soonyoung wraps his fingers around Minghao’s bicep, an invitation. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it dribble into the sweet curve of Soonyoung’s mouth.

And then Minghao’s pressing their foreheads together, biting his lip against Soonyoung’s closed mouth as he swallows, cumming.

 

 

 

 

 

When all is said and done, when the condom is disposed and the sheets stripped and replaced, Soonyoung silently steps into the shower and comes up along the slender length of Minghao’s back, rubbing the dip of his waist.

Minghao turns around. Soonyoung smooths back Minghao’s wet hair. His heart overflows. He keeps pushing Minghao's hair back and away from his face. Smooths it back until there is nothing left, and then kisses him.

 


End file.
